


A Shambles in Bohemia

by LyraNgalia



Category: Professor Moriarty: The Hound of the D'Urbervilles - Kim Newman, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blackmail, Dominance, Dominatrix, F/M, Photographs, Scandal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-27 23:29:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2710628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyraNgalia/pseuds/LyraNgalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian Moran finds himself with a bit of information about one Irene Adler and sets off to make good on some photographs in her possession. But will Moran get what he wants, or does Irene Adler live up to the esteemed title of <i>that bitch</i>?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For my friend [blue-crow](http://blue-crow.tumblr.com), who asked for a Sebastian Moran and Irene Adler story where "the photographs. Moran is interested in having some more comissioned."

"Asking to see me without your boss to hold your leash? Are you finally getting bold enough to play, Sebastian?"

Despite the almost painfully eclectic aesthetic of the bohemian coffee shop, the overstuffed armchair could have been a throne the way Irene Adler sat in it, a lazy feline smile on her lips as she regarded the man sitting across the small table from her. Sebastian Moran sprawled in the other armchair, his demeanor calm as he took a draught from his coffee mug. He looked so pleased with himself that if he had a tail, Irene expected he would have been lashing it. Moriarty's enforcer was an oddity. It didn't take someone with Irene's skills to know what he liked. He wore his carnal desires on his sleeve like a badge of pride, his uncomplicated desires for women and violence a simple pleasure a contrast to Moriarty's labyrinthine likes.

But he was loyal in his own way to Jim Moriarty, and Irene found that fascinating. Not of Moran, in and of himself, but it was a hint into how Jim Moriarty worked, and that Irene knew was key to perhaps her own survival in playing this game.

"It's always the _game_ with people like you. People like you and the boss and the scarecrow," Moran answered as he drained his mug with relish. He was confident today, full of bluster, rather than his usual polite wariness and unsubtle leering.

Irene, in contrast, took a single sip from her demitasse and arched an eyebrow wordlessly. She waited for Moran to continued, and when he did not, crossed her legs at the knee, watching his eye drift over her as the gesture inched her skirt up a quarter inch.

"I hope you didn't ask me to meet you just to complain about Jim, pet,” Irene said as she set the small porcelain cup back in its saucer with a soft clink of china, and brushed nonexistent dust from her lap. The faintest wince crossed Moran's face at her casual, dismissive use of Jim Moriarty's name, though Irene allowed it to pass unremarked upon. She uncrossed her legs and made to stand. “I have actual _clients_ to see--”

Moran's reaction was quick. The only warning she had was a  _look_ in his eyes, a spark, and the next thing Irene saw was a pistol in his hand, between the side of his leg and the overstuffed couch's cushions, aimed straight at her. “You don't, unless those clients are interested in seeing those pretty brains splattered against the wall, sweetheart,” he answered, utterly pleased with himself. 

The thought ran through Irene's mind that she had been betrayed, that what truce there had been between her and Jim Moriarty had been broken, but she dismissed that just as quickly at the look on Moran's face. No, Sebastian Moran looked far too pleased with  _himself_ for this to have been Moriarty's betrayal. When Moran followed orders, there was a calm to him that was professional, that was cold despite his obvious enjoyment of what he did. This time he was positively gleeful, relishing his words. Irene frowned and sat back down, her lips pressed thin together as she did, her displeasure obvious.

“You're not being professional, Sebastian,” she said coldly. “If this were professional, you'd never have let me see you coming.” She crossed her legs again and arched an eyebrow, exuding boredom despite the gun he pointed at her, though she allowed her eyes to flick down to the pistol nervously.

“Being professional would be staying out of the boss's way,” he agreed, relaxing in response to her perceived nervousness. A small gesture with the gun. “But then you're not being particularly _professional_ either, are you?  We both know you've been playing with the boss's toys. That ponce in the House of Lords' hired girlfriend. You're smart enough to have known she's one of ours.”

Irene shrugged, not bothering to deny the accusation, and crossed her arms beneath her breasts. The motion pulled at her dress, allowed the fabric to hug her curves more closely, and she was rewarded with Moran's eyes straying. “And here you are, pointing a gun at me rather than having already taken care of business. So you're not planning on letting Jim know what I've been up to. Blackmail, is it?”

A nod, and a wide smile from Moran in response, his gun still pointed at her, though his grip had obviously relaxed. “You know your business, sweetheart. You give me what I want, and I forget seeing you through my scope leave the ponce's apartment while he's off lording around.”

She dipped her head in response, filing the bit of information away about how exactly he'd discovered her dalliance, about how little  _ proof _ he actually had. “And what is it you want, exactly?” she asked, red nails tapping against her arm. “Blackmail doesn't work if you don't tell me what your price is.”

“Nothing out of the ordinary for your line of work. Just pictures.” Moran gestured at her with the pistol again, still careful to keep it between his leg and the armchair's cushions. No casual passerby would notice it, not unless they were paying very close attention, and perhaps not even then. “I want you in those pictures, and better ones than the ones on your website. Don't even bother with that lace thing.”

Her eyes widened incredulously, and Irene uncrossed her legs, leaning forward as if distance could change what she had heard. The move also had the added effect of shifting the neckline of her dress downward a half inch, exposing another sliver of pale decolletage. Moran's gaze drifted to her cleavage. “Should I be insulted, Sebastian?” Irene asked. “You've found yourself a viable bit of blackmail and rather than demanding actual sexual favours, all you want are indecent photographs?”

The pistol remained in Moran's hand, but he shrugged, giving her a quick nod. “You run in the same circles as the boss and the scarecrow, sweetheart, and you're not dead yet. You're dangerous. As much as I'd fuck you before either of them given a choice, it doesn't mean I'd do it just because.” He waved at her with his left hand, wiggling his fingers with a leer. “My hand and my imagination are less likely to get me killed than what's between your legs.”

That provoked a laugh from Irene and she nodded again in acquiescence. “You're smarter than I gave you credit for,” she admitted. “But then that's how you've survived this long, isn't it? Being smarter than other people give you credit for.” She did not wait for his response, instead rising to her feet again despite the gun still pointed at her, and offered him a hand. Sebastian eyed her warily for a moment, but after a long pause switched the pistol to his left hand and shook hers, his fingers warm and his grip certain despite a telltale dampness.

“Watch your phone, Mr. Moran. You'll have what you want by the end of the week.”


	2. Chapter 2

It could have been coincidence that made Sebastian Moran's phone chime with a new message from one Irene Adler as he walked by the same coffee shop Bohemia four days later. It could have been, but Sebastian Moran did not stay alive as long as he had by chalking things up to _coincidences_. As soon as Sebastian saw who had sent him the message, he ducked just inside the doorway of the coffee shop and looked around him sharply for his tail.

Three sweeps, and he found at least two possibilities. The barista behind the espresso machine, her face turned carefully away from him, and the young woman with the knit cap on strumming a guitar and crooning off-key. Sebastian shrugged his shoulders and his phone chimed again.

 

_Don't be shy now._

 

He pressed himself against the wall and glared down at his phone, then at the barista, who looked up at that moment and threw an obscene gesture at him. His trigger finger itched. He hated the feel of being exposed, out in the open without knowing where his prey was, and popping that upstart barista (who was decided not Irene Adler, her pride would never let her have that nose, even as a disguise) would have made him feel immensely better.

He glanced over at the guitar player, eyeing the way her hip curved as she perched on her stool. Possibly, but her hands were too large, her fingers too short for Irene Adler. He reluctantly tapped his phone open and began downloading the first message, the one with the photographs.

It took a few minutes for the photos to load, either due to quality or quantity, and either was fine by him. Despite his irritation, his general feeling of being _outmaneuvered_ , Sebastian felt an anticipatory tug in his gut as he tapped on the icon for the first photo. He knew the photographs on her website well enough, the lace that covered everything and emphasized it all, the sort of thing the clients she _entertained_ would like. None of that cheap fake leather corsetry for her, not Irene Adler. Still, he hoped there was some corsetry in the photos. He did like a woman kept tied up...

The first photograph finally appeared on his phone, and the anticipation that had been building in his gut withered to ash when he saw the photo. Yes, in the top right was Irene Adler, her legs long and bare and her body cinched by a tight black corset, holding a whip or maybe a leash in her hand. But what made Sebastian's stomach drop was the foreground, a very clear shot of the man with Irene Adler, bound and his mouth held open with a ring gag, a leather collar around his throat.

Sebastian knew those dead snake eyes anywhere.

He took orders staring Jim Moriarty in the face to know his boss, even when he was trussed up with whip marks crisscrossing his torso.

Scrolling through the photos, the sinking feeling in Sebastian's stomach grew. Each photo Irene Adler had sent included Jim Moriarty's face clearly, in a wide array of positively humiliating positions. The sort of photographs Moriarty would no doubt kill anyone who saw the consulting criminal in such a state.

The fact that he'd kill the one who took said photos didn't actually _matter_ in this case, because anyone who saw them would immediately be marked for death as well. Moriarty tolerated no weakness, and if that included killing off his best gun, Sebastian Moran had no illusions that he would. Moriarty, after all, got precisely where he was by being ruthless. He didn't have to scroll through to the message that accompanied the photos to know what it said.

 

_Looks like we're even, Sebastian, wouldn't you say?_

 

She had him over a barrel now, the same way he had her. If he ever spilled the beans about her sideline to Moriarty, he'd have her killed, but Sebastian had no illusions that she'd die quietly. She'd no doubt find a way to reveal to Moriarty that Sebastian had seen some very inappropriate photographs of his boss and... well, hired guns were easy to come by for someone like Jim Moriarty. Sebastian knew his boss would have backups.

Another text.

 

_Delete them if you like, but there's always a record of who's seen a photo._

 

Sebastian growled deep in his throat and shoved his phone back in his pocket. The barista glared at him again, then waved to someone in the back. A supervisor, to get rid of the man loitering. He straightened and gave himself a shake, stepping out of the coffee shop, letting the bell at the handle clatter against the etch glass name on the door. _Bohemia_.

“That _bitch_ ,” he said as he began walking away, towards the next job.


End file.
